


Dreadful Need

by Lacerta26



Series: Like Real People Do [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Tension, Vulnerability, breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta26/pseuds/Lacerta26
Summary: After Matthew dies Tom and Thomas find a way to cope with their grief.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Tom Branson
Series: Like Real People Do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961536
Comments: 44
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge credit to [Smithens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/) and [ likehandlingroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likehandlingroses) whose discussion on tumblr about the Tom and Thomas affair conspiracy I read with interest before the worms lodged in my brain and I committed myself to writing this. 
> 
> There will be more chapters and more parts. Some of it is already written, some of it not. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from Hozier, natch. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

October 1921 

October dawns sharp and bright but there’s a shadow cast over Downton that no one can shake. Tom has lived in a shadow like it, he knows there’s no reaching Mary just now just as there was no hope of reaching him after Sybil died. 

Everyone is mired in their grief; Mary for her husband and the father of her child, Robert for the son he thought he’d never have and found in Matthew. Tom feels like a voyeur on their misery, like he has no right to witness it this intimately, despite having been a part of the family for over a year.

And yet he feels the bite in his chest just as keenly as any of them, for the man who welcomed him into the family once Sybil was gone. Matthew was a friend, a brother; he was the bridge between upstairs and downstairs along which Tom could walk without feeling like he was about to go hurtling over the edge and now he’s left Tom to fend for himself. 

That’s where it starts, where he’s looking for something to distract him, not a replacement for their friendship but something like understanding with someone who wasn’t born into the life he’s found himself in. 

*

Alfred doesn’t come up to dress him for some reason, perhaps he’s ill, Tom’s been in such a daze he often feels as if all of Downton could come crashing down around him and he wouldn’t notice. He’s been sitting staring at his tails for what feels like hours as if they will miraculously clothe him without his input and for most men in houses like this that is exactly what happens; looking through their valets as if they weren’t human. Except Tom is not most men and for the most part he’s content to dress himself but there’s an important guest expected for dinner and Old Lady Grantham would like him to look the part. 

The door opens suddenly and Thomas rushes in looking harried. 

‘Beg pardon, sir.’

Tom shakes his head, to clear the fog if nothing else, ‘where’s Alfred?’

‘He’s been taken ill. I’ll be looking after you tonight,’ Thomas smiles tightly. 

Tom stands, he’ll never get used to this, being dressed like a doll by a man he used to work beside. He’s already in his trousers and shirt, thank god, so he only needs tidying up enough to make him look presentable. 

Over by the dresser Thomas is already sorting through cufflinks and the silence is palpable; Tom opens his mouth to speak more than once but can’t think of a thing to say; everything he _wants_ to say is inappropriate, everything he _can_ say isn’t enough. Upstairs they like to think the servants don’t grieve as profoundly because it makes it easier to insist they keep working but death in the house you serve is impossible for most to ignore. Despite what he likes to project, Tom knows Thomas feels things deeply; he saw it often enough when he was Downstairs, and Thomas was at the Front with Matthew, however briefly, that sort of thing ties men together. 

Thomas turns, the air in the room moving around him as he steps closer. His hands on Tom’s wrists are warm even through his shirt as he fastens the cufflinks and Tom struggles to remember the last person he touched other than Sybbie. It’s almost a shock, painful, how much he realises he’s needed it, even this, clinical and detached. He steps back, bearing shifting and Thomas looks up sharply, concern fleeting on his face as if he’s worried he’s hurt him.

‘I can do that,’ Tom says, his voice rough, ‘let me,’ he’s hot with embarrassment, desperate to be alone and not thought of as a fool by everyone in this house. 

‘By all means, sir,’ says Thomas and it’s cutting, an insult wrapped in respect. 

Thomas moves over to where Tom’s waistcoat and jacket are hanging and it gives him a moment to gather himself. The empty space Matthew has left behind suddenly feels big enough to swallow him up; where the upper class repression hadn’t quite stuck and he would clap Tom on the shoulder, throw an arm round him, forget himself and the distance they’re meant to keep between them. He’s missed it and he’s missed Downstairs where there are fewer rules to dictate a man’s feelings.

The rest of his clothes go on easily, slipped on from behind, and the feel of Thomas’s hands across his shoulders is not so disquieting now he’s got used to it. Tom let’s it lull him, the feel of the brush across his jacket is repetitive, mechanical, and he can almost forget Thomas is there, which is how it’s supposed to be however much he hates it. 

Except then Thomas has to come round to face him, to tie his bowtie, and they are stood so close Tom can see the sweep of Thomas’s eyelashes, a strand of his hair that’s fallen from it’s usually perfect parting. 

The last time they were this close together was August, before Matthew died, and Tom is suddenly reminded of that day at the fair; the feel of the rope, rough against his hands during the tug of war, and after, embracing Thomas like there was no division between them, no invisible line that marks them as different. That day ended badly for Thomas and all the days after it seem to have brought them all more misery. 

He can see Thomas is remembering it too, his eyes wide with quickly shuttered emotion before he looks away. 

‘Thank you, Thomas,’ he hates how he sounds, dismissive, but his heart is beating so fast he’s sure it’s loud enough to hear. The room feels close, stifling, and the contact he so wanted from another person is claustrophobic, now. 

Thomas’s hands have stilled, spread either side of the wings of Tom’s bowtie, resting on his collarbones. He always got on with Thomas Downstairs, or rubbed along with him at least, where Thomas was spiky and combative with everyone else; they were friends, for a time, although he’s not sure Thomas would agree, but now, what can they possibly be to each other? 

‘Sir,’ it’s almost a question but not one Tom has an answer to and before he dares to look up Thomas has left the room and it feels like he’s taken all the air with him. 

*

‘Are you quite alright, Tom? You seem distracted,’ Cora asks in the Drawing Room after dinner. 

Tom is looking at Thomas across the room where he’s handing Old Lady Grantham a drink and he turns back to Cora after a beat too long. Her face is sympathetic which just makes the guilt he already feels so much harder to bear. 

Mary didn’t come down to dinner. They’re all still in mourning and Robert’s guest is apologetic but the atmosphere was stifling. Old Lady Grantham and Cora tried their best but Tom was so intensely focused on his meal so as to avoid looking at Thomas he could barely hold up his end of the conversation. 

He stands, ‘if you’ll all excuse me, I think I’ll go up.’ 

‘If you’re sure,’ Cora is frowning and he hates to add to her worries but he needs to be away from here and the weight of all their expectations. 

*

Alone in his room, Tom presses his back to the door, pulling at the ends of his bowtie, fingers catching at his collar. It’s unlikely Carson will send Thomas after him immediately with everyone else still downstairs but he’s frozen with indecision; get undressed himself and risk being caught half dressed or wait and endure being alone with Thomas again. 

He’s still leaning against the closed door when he hears the knock and unable to think of another course of action, he opens it. 

‘Mr Carson thought it best I see to you first, sir, before heading back down,’ Thomas comes into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

‘There’s no need, I can manage perfectly well myself,’ they’re alone, and yet it feels to Tom like he’s observed from all sides, with no space to just _be._

The way Thomas is looking at him is indecipherable; scorn, certainly, but underneath he can’t help but think there’s something like concern. There’s barely a foot of space between them but they might as well be stood at either end of the Great Hall for all the difference it makes. Tom can’t find comfort here as much as he might need it and Thomas isn’t about to offer it. The tension earlier was simply a function of their proximity; they are servant and served, that’s all.

Thomas hangs up his jacket and waistcoat while Tom undoes his own shirt studs but he fumbles left handed with the last cufflink and has to concede to needing help, holding out his arm, ‘could you?’.

‘Of course,’ Thomas comes over and takes his wrist gently, thumb brushing underneath the cuff of his shirt, against his pulse point and that’s what does it; Tom wants to weep and run away and haul Thomas closer all at once. 

They look at each other, eyes wide, and Thomas’s hold on his wrist tightens a fraction and it seems as if they fall towards each other, into not quite a kiss, mouth against open mouth, and Thomas’s grip firm on the back of Tom’s neck. They’re clinging to each other, not moving in the middle of the room, until Tom makes a noise that’s almost a sob and Thomas does kiss him, then. Kisses him quiet, kisses him still. 

It’s unlike any kiss he’s ever had before, Thomas’s is certain, direct, the rasp of his stubble against Tom’s face a foreign sensation; it's distracting, consuming, there’s nothing in his head but this, Thomas warm and pressed against him like he hasn’t been with another person since Sybil died. 

_Sybil._ He shouldn’t be thinking about her at a time like this, while he does something like this, but he finds it so different to kissing a woman, to touching a woman, that he can hold her memory in his mind without guilt, at least for now. 

He’s already mostly undressed, shirt open, bare feet on the carpet and Thomas is still buttoned up in so many layers that Tom doesn’t know how he’ll ever get to skin, his hands clumsy on fastenings as he attempts to even the score. They half stumble, half walk to the bed and onto it, rocking against each other with a rough sort of desperation.

Moving against Thomas’s thigh is easy, heat and pressure, but they shift across the bed and Tom can suddenly feel Thomas’s prick, hard against his hip and it’s jarring in its unfamiliarity. Above him Thomas is flushed, a harsh stripe of pink across his cheekbones, his hair is in disarray and he’s breathing deeply; a man in his bed is so beyond Tom’s experience and the panic must show on his face. 

‘We don’t…’ Thomas begins but Tom knows if he lets him finish this will be over, he will be alone again and he needs this, needs to be with someone, at least for a moment, who knows what he wants and can give it to him. 

He pulls Thomas down to meet him, kissing him fiercely, hands to the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble there and relishing in that difference. Thomas groans, an involuntary sound and it goes right to Tom’s prick, a pleasant and insistent throb in his trousers that demands attention. Thomas must feel it too, that ache to be touching skin, because he gets Tom’s trousers open as well as his own, licks his own palm in a way that makes Tom blush, and that first proper touch is like relief. 

Thomas is taller than him, less stocky, and he moves with purpose, slotting them together so he can stroke them both at once; he knows what he’s doing, of course, that secret that isn’t a secret at Downton and it helps Tom relax, to be in practiced hands. Thomas moves faster, and it’s almost too much pleasure, like he’s too big for his own skin, desperate for release and scared of it, too. He focuses on the sensation, Thomas’s hand is smoother than he expected, touch gentle until Tom’s breathing hard, hot under his remaining clothes and for Thomas against him, touching him, getting him to the end faster than he has since he was a younger man. 

‘Let me, let me,’ Thomas repeats it, like a litany, hot against Tom's skin, stroking Tom’s prick, thumb against the slit to spread the wet there, ignoring his own pleasure. 

The directness of the touch, the focus of it, is so intense Tom can’t hold back. He rocks his hips into the feeling, gasps, grip tight to Thomas’s arm and one hand tangled in the bedsheets, and comes. 

Lights dance behind his closed eyelids as climax rolls over him like a wave; it’s a hollow sort of pleasure, bright and intense but over quickly, and he opens his eyes to Thomas kneeling above him looking uncertain, his prick hard against his belly where his waistcoat and shirt are undone, his undershirt rucked up. Tom just nods, not sure what he’s granting permission for, but he knows he needs to give it and reaches out with one hand at Thomas’s hip, keeping a connection between them. Thomas starts touching himself, slowly at first, head tipped back, and then frantic, hips moving to meet his hand and it’s over just as quickly as he adds to the mess on Tom’s chest. 

They sink side by side on to the bed but it’s only a brief moment of equity between them before Thomas is sitting up, poised on the edge of the mattress. He’s waiting, Tom knows, to be dismissed, that he can’t leave if Tom asks him to stay and that thought is like a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach. The clock on the dresser says it's been three quarters of an hour since he came up, enough time for Thomas to be missed, and the guilt resettles itself under Tom’s skin. He feels awkward, suddenly, holding his shirt closed over himself, unsure of where they go from here. 

‘Thomas,’ he starts, unsure of where he’s headed, ‘Thomas. I wouldn’t want you to think that you _have_ to be here, like this. With me.’ 

It’s a bit late to be clarifying his position and he doesn’t think Thomas stayed out of anything other than a desire to do so but the line of Thomas’s back is unreadable, closed off, ‘that’s my job, isn’t it? To take care of you.’

His words are gentle but his tone isn’t and Tom is alone again with barely two feet of space between them. 

‘Thank you, Thomas, that’ll be all,’ he waits, eyes averted as Thomas cleans up with his handkerchief, straightens his uniform. 

At the door Thomas turns, enough so that Tom can only see his profile, hand on the handle, the cool blue of his eyes mostly transparent in the low light, ‘anytime. Tom,’ and then he’s gone. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

October 1921

Thomas can feel the bruises when he moves, he spots them as soon as he gets up, five blueish smudges at his hip, the exact span of Tom’s hand. Every time he closes his eyes he’s back there, in Tom’s bed, his hand on Tom’s prick and their breath harsh in the quiet of the room. He’d had no thoughts in that direction when he’d gone up to dress him; it was just another task, an imposition from Mr Carson, and yet he’d seen something on Tom’s face, an answer to his own grief, if only for a moment, that compelled him to act. 

Getting ready for the day seems to take an age, he feels preoccupied, but lighter than he has in a long time, like he’s let something go. He doesn’t tend to go in for introspection, it’s dangerous to spend too much time dwelling in the darker parts of his mind, but he may have to concede he was holding on to more pain than he’d thought.

There’s been too much death in this house, too much misery upstairs and down; he liked Mr Crawley, as much as he’s ever liked any of them upstairs, except maybe Lady Sybil and it’s barely been a year and a half since they lost her. They were the two who had shown him kindness, sincerely, at the Front and after, but the grief of servants is rarely acknowledged. Tom’s been carrying that grief with him too, for his wife, for Matthew, and Thomas knows he can’t really share it with anyone either, stuck somewhere between the Crawleys and their staff. 

He isn’t under any illusions; whatever either of them stand to gain from the previous night can’t go beyond the four walls of Tom’s bedroom but for an evening he had an ally, an understanding with someone under this roof that blurred the line that divides them. Sex can be a great leveller, a chance to meet someone where they’re most vulnerable, to share something honest. It can also be the exact opposite, as Thomas well knows, but with Tom he gets the impression it was the first honest thing he’d done in a long time. Reaching out for comfort, finding a connection; it matters even if it doesn’t last. 

Still, it felt strange to have been wanted, _needed,_ in a way that had nothing to do with work. You get used to being alone but not to being lonely and Thomas is painfully familiar with both. He and Jimmy have managed to find a balance that approaches friendship but he knows deep down that Jimmy hates what he is and will never be able to forgive him for it. The rest of them tolerate him at best and he can’t say he feels particularly for any of them in return. Tom wasn’t at Downton for very long before Thomas went to the Front and by the time he was back home Tom was already away, in his own mind, set apart from the rest of them by his connection to Lady Sybil. Thomas had his own aspirations then and their fortunes have waxed and waned in parallel ever since but now it seems their lives might intersect in ways he never expected.

*

He's in the courtyard when Tom comes to find him, having a smoke, leaning in the shadow of the arches across from the door, and Tom doesn’t see him immediately, likely sent in this direction by Anna or Mrs Hughes. Thomas can’t identify the feeling he gets in the few seconds he’s watching, waiting for Tom to spot him; it’s an uneasy feeling, heat across his cheeks at the memory of last night, but there’s uncertainty too, having to face each other in the daylight isn’t so easy for some. 

‘Ah, Thomas, there you are,’ Tom starts towards him quickly, then slows, dragging his feet like a man headed for the gallows. 

When he makes it across the courtyard he’s quiet and Thomas draws on his cigarette, holds in the smoke, ashes the end of it. Tom watches him, entranced by every action, and Thomas had forgotten how easy it can be to catch a man’s eye, their interest, to be desirable and to have that desire reciprocated. Tom doesn’t say anything so Thomas lets his eyes drop to his mouth for a moment before he makes eye contact again, ‘what can I do for you, _sir,_ ’ and lets the last word hang in the air, inviting all kinds of implications. 

‘I wanted to apologise, for last night,’ Tom’s not returning his gaze, his eyes darting all over Thomas’s face, his body half turned away and the heat in Thomas’s cheeks turns to shame as quickly as water coming to the boil, ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was asking for anything you weren’t comfortable with.’

‘Not at all, sir.’ 

Tom is still not looking at him, ‘and I also wanted to thank you, for coming to my aid.’ 

That is not what Thomas was expecting. He’s never been thanked before, in all the upstairs bedrooms he’s found himself, in this house and in others, no one has ever _thanked_ him for it, like he was just carrying their suitcase, or sorting out their tails. He hates it. His skin crawls with the condescension of it. Not that many years ago Tom was like him, Downstairs but dissatisfied with it and now they are clearly further apart than ever. 

‘It seemed like you needed some relief,’ Thomas has put the mask back on now, the one they all wear in service, they’re clearly not having this conversation as equals and he needs to take back control, as best he can. 

‘No, that’s not it _._ I - I needed a friend -,’ Tom looks up sharply, finally making eye contact, the distress is clear on his face and Thomas feels badly to have caused it but not enough to back down. 

‘And that’s all, is it?’ he lets the disdain creep into his voice, if he’s going to be patronised he can give as good as he gets and in matters like this he has the upperhand, the experience to control the moment of parting. 

‘We can’t -. It’s not appropriate.’

Thomas knows Tom doesn’t mean because they’re both men, or not entirely, the look on his face is grief, not disgust, but it hurts like rejection all the same. He grinds his cigarette under his heel and turns away, further into the building, further out of the sight of anyone who might have ventured outside by the back door. He doesn’t expect to be followed but Tom comes after him.

‘I don’t want you to feel used.’

‘It’s a bit late for that,’ every man he’s ever been with has used him in some way or other and he’s used most of them in turn. His motivations have rarely been pure so Tom needing a distraction from his own grief is hardly a crime when held up against Thomas’s past sins but it doesn’t stop it from galling. 

‘I’m trying to thank you, I’m trying to apologise.’ 

‘There’s no need, it’s all part of the service.’ 

‘I wish you would stop saying that,’ Tom has been speaking in an undertone, whispering, on edge, as if he's anxious to be away from here, away from Thomas and this conversation but this he says firmly, loudly enough that anyone nearby could hear them.

He takes Thomas’s hand where it’s hanging by his side, awkwardly catching at his fingers for a moment and it’s the most tender gesture that’s passed between them even accounting for last night. They turn into each other so easily, naturally, the warmth between them a comfort in the cold October air that shuts out everything else. 

‘What do you want me to say?’ Thomas says it softly, like he’s given in, playing this game of wrong footing each other is too much work and he doesn’t want to cause Tom any more pain, not really. He couldn’t bear any more pain himself for that matter. 

‘I don’t know,’ Tom is quiet again, now, not like a whisper, but a plea and he has the same look on his face as he had in his bedroom, a well of grief that seems like it might be endless. 

The kiss is soft at first, their lips barely brushing, and Thomas is struck by their height difference, something he’d barely noticed last night and then it doesn’t matter because they’re grasping at each other, kissing deeply, teeth and tongue and Thomas’s back up against the damp wall. It’s more purposeful than last night; here they can only kiss, and even that is riskier than anything that transpired in the privacy of Tom’s bed, it’s not a prelude to anything, they are kissing only for the sake of it. Tom is sturdy in his arms, his hands at Thomas’s jaw to bring them closer together and he seems more sure of himself this time even as he’s telling Thomas that this, whatever it is, must be over before it’s really begun. 

And then it is over. 

Tom breaks away first, his face is flushed and he’s breathing hard, stepping back to put as much space between them as possible without being impolite. Thomas runs his hand over his face, feeling the bruised skin of his mouth, and Tom closes his eyes like he can’t bear to see. 

‘I won’t say it was a mistake,’ say Tom, ‘but it can’t happen again, you know that as well as I do.’ 

Thomas nods because what is there to say? What had he truly expected? It was a distraction and an acknowledgement that they are both hurting and that too often their pain goes overlooked. It might have been vulgar to seek solace in another’s touch, in a quick fuck that could destroy both their lives over again but it was what they needed and it can’t be taken back now. 

‘I hope you won’t cause trouble for me, with this, just as I won’t cause trouble for you,’ says Tom and it’s clear this is the crux of what he came to say and it’s a shock to realise that while Thomas has been considering their feelings Tom is concerned only with their reputations. 

‘No, I wouldn’t do that.’

Tom looks relieved, he steps further away but doesn’t leave even though the conversation must surely be over so Thomas makes the decision for him heading decisively for the back door. He doesn’t look back but Tom doesn’t follow him and Thomas can’t hear him walking away either. 

*

There's no one else free to serve the tea in the afternoon and Thomas prays for an emergency somewhere on the estate that will take Tom away from the rest of them but he’s there on the sofa in the library when Thomas carries in the tray.

‘Are you quite alright, Barrow? You’re white as a sheet,’ says Lady Edith as he hands her a teacup.

‘I’m very well, milady,’ it’s a blessing that he can stand, eyes forward, detached from what’s going on around him but he can’t ignore Tom forever. 

Since Thomas came into the room Tom’s been sitting staring at the fire, tension evident in his whole body, and Thomas thought he might just stay there until he could escape back Downstairs but it’s not to be. He crosses the room like a man condemned and when Tom reaches out to accept his cup of tea their fingers brush almost imperceptibly and Thomas’s hands shake against the china, sounding as loud as gunshots in the quiet of the library, tea sloshes out, pooling in the saucer now dripping in Tom’s hands as he jumps up, hot tea seeping into their shoes. 

‘Apologies, sir.’ 

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’ll fetch a cloth.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tom’s hand is firm on his arm, a step over the line, inappropriate in this context, in every context, and they look at each other in alarm, Tom takes his hand away as though he’s been scalded by more than the tea but no one is looking at them. 

‘You can leave us now, Barrow,’ says Mary from the other sofa, her eyes barely flicking in his direction and Thomas goes as quickly as he can which is far faster than is polite. 

In the Great Hall he pauses by the stairs for a moment, to get himself under control, his heart hammering, his palms damp with sweat. Perhaps it was foolish to think this would be easy. Men pass through this house all the time, lords and gentlemen who catch his eye at parties, and it rarely lasts, a few months at most, _youthful dalliances,_ madness in a London season, but he’s never had to live with them after. If they ever do cross paths again he can avoid them or they avoid him and everyone pretends that what went on didn’t, everyone pretends that it didn’t hurt when it had to end.

He doesn't even know himself what it is that he wants only that he woke up this morning in a better mood than he has in months and now he feels untethered, panicky and lost. He’s angry too that he should have been made to care what someone in this house thinks of him, that his actions from here on in will have consequences for both of them. He believes Tom when he says it can’t happen again but that doesn’t mean it won’t. He’s misunderstood before, read the signals wrong, got more invested than he should have but Tom kissed him in the courtyard and the look in his eyes is desire, even now, even under his grief. Perhaps that desire has nothing to do with Thomas and is only about what he can give; comfort, distraction, a body to warm his bed but Thomas has been used for worse and he could do with those things in return.

He’s still standing by the staircase when Mr Carson comes into the Hall and it startles Thomas to attention.

‘Thomas, do you have some purpose in your loitering or is there work you should be doing?’

‘No, Mr Carson. I mean yes, of course.’

‘Well, get on with it then,’ Mr Carson shoos him away imperiously and Thomas hurries Downstairs in case he’s directed back to the library.

He's good at pretending, for the most part, but Tom isn't. Thomas might have been here before but this is the first time he could truly ruin a man’s life with the knowledge of his indiscretion. It’s not that straightforward because he’s Downstairs and Tom is still as close to Upstairs as any of their class will ever get. Thomas has no proof except his own word but he knows how he can turn a situation gone sour to his advantage, he’s done it on more than one occasion before. He just isn’t sure now how much advantage he wants here.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

November 1921 

Downton is strange when it’s empty. 

Of course it’s never truly empty, the house is still full downstairs, even with Cora and Robert away in London, visiting Lady Rosamund with Mary and Edith, a hopeful attempt to bring Mary back to herself. Tom managed to get out of going, claiming he had too much work on the estate, but now he regrets it. 

Avoiding the servants has become second nature, eating at the pub in the village, leaving early and coming home late. He knows it makes a mockery of their work, to refuse their service, but he can’t bear to be waited on by people he used to work beside. She’s long gone now but Edna’s words always haunt him; he doesn’t think he’s any better than the rest of them and that’s what makes it so difficult. 

He spends his days outside, attempting to work up that sort of bone deep tiredness that might overcome the constant weariness he feels which has nothing to do with overwork, or in the Nursery with Sybbie and George who are always pleased to see him and have no idea of the sorrow in the house.

*

Tom’s been out since near dawn walking the estate, not really doing anything, just trying to escape, and it starts to rain, big, fat drops which soak him to the skin in minutes, the ground quickly becoming boggy as he hurries back to the car. He slips and falls hard on his side, jarring his arm as he attempts to break his fall. The sob that bursts out of him at the pain of it turns to harsh laughter quickly; he is ridiculous and the way he’s been carrying on is ridiculous. He keeps deliberately leaving himself out of things, one foot always out the door of this life he didn’t want. 

He walks home, he can’t get anymore damp and he doesn’t want to muddy up the inside of the car, and by the time he can see Downton in the distance he’s shaking with cold. He won’t go in the front door, not covered in mud, but there will be far more people to see him and judge him if he goes in by the servants entrance. 

He steels himself but the corridor to the kitchen is mercifully empty and strangely quiet and he’s almost made it to the stairs when Thomas steps into the hall, holding a cup of tea and frowning.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ his voice is level, neutral, where before he _might_ have smiled however insincerely. 

‘Where is everyone?’ 

‘They went into Thirsk for the day, with the family away. I can’t say when they’ll be back, not with this rain.’ 

‘So it’s just you,’ it comes out more begrudging that he really means but Thomas doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows in challenge. 

Tom spent the last days of October desperately trying to avoid Thomas and seemingly running into him all over the house. It’s tense between them and Thomas is much better at aloof disinterest, always has been. Even when Tom was chauffeur he couldn’t help speaking his mind and that ended with a place upstairs, a seat at Lord Grantham’s table and more heartbreak than any man should have to bear.

He doesn’t even know what he wants to say to Thomas that he hasn’t already; apologies and thanks are inadequate but Thomas was there for him when he needed someone and he will always be grateful to him for that.

In the end all he can manage is a request that he can’t even bring himself to say like an order. 

‘Could you run a bath for me and sort out these clothes? Please?’

‘I’m not a valet anymore, sir.’

Not that Thomas will take orders from him without extreme reluctance anyway.

‘Just this once? I don’t want Mrs Hughes after me because I traipsed mud all over the carpets.’ 

Thomas does smile, then, ever so slightly, ‘go on then. But take your shoes off down here.’

*

The bathroom is warm, steam rising from the tub, and it’s so inviting Tom almost forgets the implications of getting undressed in front of the man before Thomas steps forward to help him off with his jacket. He needn’t have worried, Thomas is a professional, so quick and efficient, that Tom doesn’t even feel observed until he hisses with pain when he has to lift his arms to get out of his undershirt.

‘What happened?’ Thomas’s hands are warm and gentle on his shoulder and in the mirror over the sink Tom can see his blurred reflection, a bruise already forming from where he fell. 

‘Slipped over in the mud,’ it sounds pathetic, _he_ is pathetic; he’s desperate to be alone and terrified of it, wants to be cared for but can’t bear the intimacy. 

‘The bath will help.’ 

Thomas runs the tips of his fingers down Tom’s arm, almost incidentally, to his hand and he flinches at the touch but Thomas is not looking at him; his knuckles are grazed, stinging now he’s noticed them. 

‘I’ll find some antiseptic,’ says Thomas and he steps away, gathering Tom’s discarded clothes and averting his eyes, the door clicking shut behind him as he leaves. 

The bath is perfect, almost too hot, just as Tom likes it and he can sink into the water up to his chin and let his mind go blank, feeling the life come back into his limbs as he warms up. When the door opens again he keeps his eyes closed, listens to the sounds of Thomas moving around, tidying up, and lets it soothe him. The touch is not unexpected and he lets it happen, the sudden chemical smell of the antiseptic and Thomas gently taking his hand from where it was resting on the side of the bath. It stings as Thomas dabs at his knuckles but it feels good to be tended to and cared for. 

‘You should take better care of yourself,’ says Thomas lightly like he’s not sure he’ll get away with the impropriety as he lets go of Tom’s hand. 

Tom misses the contact but he doesn’t reply and when he opens his eyes the room is empty and he’s alone.

*

In his room the fire has been laid and clean clothes set in front of it. The sky outside is dark with low, heavy clouds and it feels much later than it is, the rain hitting the windows in strange flurries, whipped up by the wind. 

Thomas comes in quietly and Tom only half turns from the window to show he’s listening. 

‘Do you require anything further, sir?’

‘No, thank you,’ he pauses to consider a question that will keep Thomas here for longer, ‘has anyone made it home yet?’ 

‘No, I expect they’ve all found a pub to shelter in.’ 

Tom does turn towards the room now. He’s only wearing his dressing gown and slippers while Thomas stands there fully clothed; it seems to be a position they find themselves in all too often and Tom struggles to comprehend which of them is in charge here. They both know what’s going to happen, it would be foolish to deny it, but can either of them take the risk to say it, to take that step forward and ask for what they want, for what he’s sure they both _need_. 

Just like the first time Tom couldn’t have said who moves first, they weren’t even standing all that close to each other and suddenly there’s no space between them at all. This kiss is different to the others; less tentative than the first time but not as fierce as the day Tom tried to end things. It’s a proper kiss, he realises, as if between lovers and that’s just what they can’t be, for so many reasons but it feels like permission to carry on. 

His hands find buttons and he fumbles to get Thomas out of some of his clothes, all those layers giving him enough time for regret, but Thomas stills his hands and takes over before he can change his mind, stripping himself with ease. 

It’s dark in the room, the fire and the lamp on the bedside table casting Thomas’s pale limbs in shades of orange, and Tom doesn’t know where to put his hands. He wants to participate, not just let things happen, and although his cock is certainly interested he can’t seem to reign in the anxiety that has his palms damp and his heart hammering in his chest. 

He lets himself be steered on to the bed, still kissing, and the movement of Thomas’s hands across his skin raises gooseflesh in its wake. They slot themselves together, thigh over thigh, arms around each other to move as one, prick against prick and Thomas’s mouth at his shoulder kissing aimlessly. 

‘Do you want..?’ Thomas says on a gasp and it seems like an unformed thought but his eyes flick over Tom’s shoulder and he tilts his head to see a jar of vaseline on the bedside table. Thomas must have brought it in with him from the bathroom, hopeful and impertinent, and it makes Tom’s face heat with the realisation of what it could be for if they want to use it. What they've done so far feels good but there’s less urgency than last time and he doesn’t just want to get off, hurried and frantic.

‘I wouldn’t -,’ if it’s possible he blushes even harder but Thomas just smiles at him gently and reaches for the jar.

‘I know what I’m doing.’

Of course he does, this part is fine, the bit that’s just sex, and Tom can nod, ‘okay.’

Thomas gets up on his knees, one hand behind himself, moving incrementally. Watching him is thrilling, an education in so many ways. At first his face is neutral, a kind of blank discomfort, and then all of a sudden he tips his head back, mouth open in pleasure and Tom wonders if he could make him do that. 

Eventually Thomas stills, probably rather quicker than he should, and there’s a pause, a question in his eyes. Tom knows there must have been other men upstairs and down who wanted him on his knees, facing away, distant even as they sought gratification from him. Tom has never been that kind of lover, to not look a partner in the eyes, he wants to share something with them, every time, even for only one night. He shifts across the bed to make space, pulling Thomas down for a kiss, feeling more certain by the second even as he’s about to do something he might once have considered unfathomable. 

It’s instinctive in the end, sinking into the grip of Thomas’s body, to seek pleasure and to give it. It’s thrilling to be not so in his head, his only concern the movement of his hips and the feeling of Thomas beneath him, knees up around his waist. He moves slowly at first, alert for every emotion that crosses Thomas’s face; concentration and then, briefly, bliss. Tom chases after it, the angle and the speed that will make Thomas gasp, desperate and trying to stifle it. 

Thomas strokes his own prick, in the hot, damp space between them his free hand gripping the meat of Tom’s backside, guiding him in the perfect motion. It doesn’t take long, perhaps it’s the knowledge that they don’t have unlimited time or the novelty of their being together in this way, and soon Thomas is speeding up the movement of his hand, easing himself over the precipice while Tom watches in awe. 

The feel of it, Thomas reaching climax while Tom is inside of him is indescribable, a wave of pleasure passed between them and Tom has just enough wherewithal to ask, ‘Thomas, can I? _Thomas_ ,’ and wait for the answering, _‘yes_ ,’ before he comes, face pressed to Thomas’s shoulder, gasping. 

It seems to reverberate around his body, mellow and sweet, tapering off into such unlikely contentment that he can’t not lean down to find Thomas’s mouth and kiss him until he laughs. They fall side by side on to the bed, both of them breathing hard, easy for a time in the silence, close but not quite touching, catching each other’s eyes and smiling.

‘You’re allowed to miss them as much as the rest of them do.’

It’s not what Tom expects, bracing himself for Thomas to cut and run again; he’s tapping his fingers against his thigh, desperate for a smoke probably, but looking at Tom so sincerely it forces a response out of him. 

‘I know -. Matthew, he understood. They don’t understand why she loved me and I feel like such an outsider here without her.’

‘You’re not alone in that. Feeling like an outsider,’ says Thomas quietly.

Tom frowns, he doesn’t want to sound rude, Thomas has done well at Downton, considering, no one has an issue with his _work_ as far as Tom can tell although it can’t be easy to be at odds with everyone around you, to feel excluded from the conversation before it’s even begun. That he can empathise with. 

‘I’m not like them and I know how they really feel about it, about me. You wouldn’t understand,’ Thomas continues.

‘Perhaps not.' 

They lapse into silence and it’s not entirely comfortable. Everyone will be arriving home soon, if they haven’t already and Thomas will be missed. Tom knows that he should be clear about the likelihood of this happening again, but it’s another thing for him to lose, however imperfect and risky it might be for both of them, and he doesn’t want to be the one to do it. 

In the end he surprises himself, with what he suddenly feels the need to say, ‘I see how you are with Sybbie, how you look out for her and I am grateful for that.’ 

‘I don’t do it for you,’ Thomas is curt, already turning away, and Tom would say anything to stop him becoming closed off and unreachable again.

‘She told me everyone was wrong about you, you know. After you worked together at the hospital. She liked you,’ it is true, although only said in passing, an off hand remark given extra weight now that she’s gone. 

It’s strange to be discussing his wife and daughter with a man he’s just fucked, still naked in bed, upstairs in the house of the family he used to work for but it does make Thomas turn back to him. 

‘Not much use to me now, is it. The only person who liked me in this house is dead and -,’ Thomas sighs, a short stop of breath, and then presses his lips together, ‘sorry, she was your wife, she was -.’

Tom reaches out, he doesn’t quite dare to take Thomas’s hand, even after everything that seems a step too far, so he presses his fingers to Thomas’s wrist, just for a moment.

‘You’re allowed to miss her too.’ 

Thomas nods but doesn’t speak. After a beat he gets up and starts gathering his clothes but it’s not as hurried as last time, like he knows he’s being looked at and doesn’t mind it. Tom locates his dressing gown from the floor and slips it on, sitting back on the end of the bed to watch Thomas recreate the version of himself that he presents to the world.

‘Thomas.’

‘You don’t have to tell me this won’t happen again. I know the score.’

‘I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s going to happen, to either of us,’ as reluctant as he is to end it, Tom knows it’s dangerous, the fear of being found out making his stomach turn.

Thomas is fully dressed again, face unreadable and not for the first time Tom wishes he knew what was truly going on in his head. On the way towards the door he rests his hand for a moment on Tom’s shoulder, smiles ever so slightly, ‘you know where I am.’

When he's gone Tom is left alone but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel lonely.


	4. Chapter 4

November 1921 

Tom comes to him again. It takes him longer this time, a few days, and when he does Thomas is upstairs. He came up to his room to change his shirt, sitting on his bed, finding a moment to pause before heading back down, and when he looks up Tom is standing in the doorway.

Thomas stands automatically, holding his clean shirt up to himself, as if Tom hasn’t seen him in far greater states of undress. He hates that he stands to attention instinctively, years of training too ingrained to ignore, and relaxes at the wave of Tom’s hand, back on the bed like a dog that’s been told to _sit._

His bedroom is not especially large; they’re too close together and not close enough and Thomas braces himself for another conversation he doesn’t want to have. 

‘You shouldn’t be up here.’

‘I know,’ Tom comes decisively into the room but hesitates before shutting the door behind him. 

The light in the room is a cool, milky blue, bright autumn sunlight streaming in through the windows and it makes Tom’s hair shine golden. He’s looking around, at the pokey little corners where Thomas keeps his few possessions, the only space he has for his life that isn’t to do with work and, still, it doesn’t even really belong to him. Thomas feels a prickling sense of embarrassment just to have Tom up here and fiercely protective at the same time. There is barely a square foot of this house where Thomas feels truly at peace but this room is as close as it gets and even here there are ghosts waiting for him, his mistakes ready to make themselves known. He already imagines Philip, crossing the boundary between Upstairs and Down, going through his things, ready to walk away from everything they shared without a backwards glance. Walking down the corridor he feels a jolt of shame when he passes by Jimmy’s room, reminded again and again of his own indiscretion and Jimmy’s fury, his disgust. If this conversation is going to be unpleasant he doesn’t want to think of it every time he goes to bed. 

‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ says Tom eventually, turning back to him, looking absent, distracted.

‘I’m not sure I can help you with that,’ Thomas looks down at his hands, irritated already. If this is to truly be the end he’d rather know it, definitively, he doesn’t want to have to hold someone else’s hand as they leave him. 

Tom closes his eyes, as if gathering strength, ‘I felt lost here for a long time…without her. And now without Matthew,’ the look on his face when Thomas glances up at him is devastating, but there’s hope there too and Thomas dares to imagine other possibilities for where this is heading. 

‘I can wear the clothes, make conversation, but I won’t ever be like them, not really.’

‘You’re doing a pretty good job of pretending,’ Thomas is sure it was meant to sound like a compliment somewhere before it reached his mouth but from the look on Tom’s face it hits like a blow. 

‘I'm not pretending - I - Thomas,’ he lets out a breath through his nose and _finally_ sits down on the bed beside him, ‘it’s not an act and it’s not pretend but it’s not really me either. I just - I have to find a balance or I’ll go mad, I couldn’t stand it and I have to stay, for now, for Sybbie.’ 

It’s a struggle for him to get the words out and it's clear it’s a thought that Tom's been wrestling with but never fully articulated before now and Thomas almost dares to take his hand. Almost. 

‘I was jealous of you, when you got away from here, and I thought if you took her with you, a little piece of this place, it might stick. But this house - it dragged you back all the same,’ he says quietly, a concession, a reward for Tom’s honesty.

‘Sometimes I think if I hadn’t -,’ Tom’s voice cracks and Thomas doesn’t dare look at him.

In spite of everything he still hasn’t seen Tom cry and he knows if he looks now there’ll be tears and more pain than either of them know how to deal with; sex is one thing, upfront and raw, but there are wounds that kind of intimacy can’t mend, places where all you can do is talk until it doesn’t hurt anymore and he’s not sure they’re ready for that, if they ever will be. Instead he looks over into the corner at the paint flaking on the wall and counts the cracks, waiting. 

‘Downton would never have been satisfied with letting her go,’ Tom says finally and it’s bitter, he blames himself, but he blames the family too and it’s hard to imagine either of them will ever quite move on from the things that have happened to them under this roof. 

‘It’s inevitable then? All of us here ‘til the end of our days and nothing we can do but endure it?’

’I wouldn’t say that. What’s life if it’s not enduring sorrow alongside finding joy.’

‘If I’m unhappy here I’ll be unhappy anywhere is that what you mean?’

‘If you want to be. But, Thomas, you don’t necessarily deserve to be unhappy. No one does.’

It’s not a sentiment anyone has ever expressed about him before and Thomas is at a loss as to how to respond. Talking about Lady Sybil is easier somehow, commonground for both of them; their love and affection for her, however different, brings them closer while keeping them at a remove from each other, her memory always in the air between them. 

‘I was jealous of her too. Or envious, I suppose, of her ability to be kind, I’ve done things I’m not proud of, hurt people when I didn’t need to.’

‘We’ve all done that, done things we’re not proud of. But a man isn’t only his mistakes. And you were a soldier. I couldn’t have done that, I _wouldn’t_ have done it but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect those who did. You saved lives.’

Thomas scoffs, rubs absentmindedly at his hand, a habit he can’t seem to shake, ‘all that wasted bloody youth. There was no glory there I’m telling you. Nothing good came out of that, nothing but cowardice and -’ now it’s his turn to look away, body tight with tension as he fights back the urge to sob.

In so many ways Tom is a braver man than him and is in this too because he does take Thomas’s hand, or at least rests his own on Thomas’s where it’s balled into a fist against his thigh. He’s always surprised that Tom’s hands are rough, he does the work on the estate, doesn’t just play at it, and he can’t stay away from the cars, one small bit of him they can’t touch. The contact is fleeting, there and gone again before Thomas can react. 

‘What I mean is no one’s irredeemable, Sybil taught me that, and I believe it.’ 

‘You’d have to believe it to go from Downstairs to Up - you especially,’ he means it unkindly, uncomfortable again at where the conversation is heading and wanting to put more distance between them, but Tom just laughs.

‘That’s true enough but they’re really not so bad and they love Sybbie.’ 

What Thomas wants to say is cruel, that they’re all obsessed with their own history, with the name and the money and the power, that little Sybbie is a Branson and a girl and won’t ever amount to anything in their eyes but it’s unkind and it’s untrue. The love they have for each other isn’t feigned; there are plenty of people in far meaner circumstances, and far grander ones, that can’t claim that. Thomas certainly can’t. 

’Yes, they love her.’

Tom’s eyes are clear now and they’re so close Thomas can see the spot on his chin he missed shaving and the pale sweep of his eyelashes closing over blue eyes. They’re tipping towards each other on the bed, the mattress sagging between them and the places at knee and hip where their bodies are touching are too hot for the chill in the room. It’s unbearable; Thomas thought he knew what this was but now he’s not so sure. He’s almost certainly been gone too long already and what excuse can he possibly give to Mr Carson, someone must have told Tom where to find him and what if they come looking for them? Tom came up here without his jacket, he’s wanted back somewhere, and while he shut the door he didn’t lock it and privacy is not something that can always be relied upon in the servants quarters. 

His thoughts must be clear on his face because Tom’s shifts back slightly in readiness to say what he came here to say but instead he stands, swiftly takes the three or so paces to the door and turns the key. 

At the sudden movement Thomas had stood so when Tom turns back to him they’re both standing in the middle of the room, Thomas in his undershirt, braces hanging at his waist, clean shirt, creased to hell, still clutched in one hand. 

‘Thank you,’ says Tom.

_Not this again._

‘For what?’ Thomas’s voice sounds so loud but he knows he spoke in barely a whisper and it’s an endless teetering moment as he watches Tom decide to kiss him. 

It’s a slow, comfortable sort of kiss as they step back towards the bed and on to it, the springs creaking and protesting under their combined weight but they don’t stop kissing. Thomas tries to pull Tom’s shirt from his trousers but he’s still got his waistcoat on, his braces, his tie done up to his collar. They’ve both still got their shoes on. 

‘Wait, wait,’ Tom breathes, sits back above Thomas, flushed and grinning as he wrestles himself out of his clothes, bearing his chest, naked skin in _Thomas's_ bed for once.

It feels like more of a transgression to be doing this up here. Thomas has been in Upstairs rooms plenty of times but he can count the number of men he’s had in this bedroom on one hand. He will always be closer to Tom than he can be to anyone born into a life like the Crawleys but is this still a boundary he shouldn’t be letting Tom cross? He’d wanted to protect this space but now he can’t imagine sending Tom away, refusing this that he wants so much. 

He isn’t given long to dwell on it before Tom gets his hand into Thomas’s trousers, a hand to his cock, and anything other than that becomes secondary to the sensation, the imperfect friction, but if they’re doing this they have to _get on with it._

Thomas’s shuffles back against the pillows, his shoes almost certainly scuffing the sheets, pulling his own shirt over his head while pulling Tom back down for a kiss. The angle shifts, brings their hips properly together and Tom sighs, moves into the contact, rocks against Thomas mindlessly, desperately. It’s uncoordinated and inelegant and so bloody good Thomas lets it happen, digs his fingers into the dip just before Tom’s backside, under the waistband of his open trousers, and rides with the feeling.

There’s nowhere they can go on his bed without falling off it so Thomas stills Tom with a kiss and sits up, toeing off his shoes, stripping off his trousers. Tom’s brief look of confusion at the sudden change in pace is replaced with understanding and he follows suit until they’re both naked, properly, flushed and eager. They don’t have time to waste but there’s no uncertainty now, no fear of an unspoken ending. 

‘What..?’ Tom on his knees on the bed, his hand hovering near Thomas’s hip in question and Thomas considers their options. 

‘Here, like this, on your side.’ 

Thomas arranges Tom where he wants him, hands caressing the firm muscle of his thigh, the softness of his belly, deliberately avoiding touching his cock. He finds the vaseline from his bedside cabinet and can’t resist a slow, careful stroke of his own prick, just to watch Tom watching him, attention rapt and it feels good to know he’s here because he wants to be, because he wants Thomas to show him these things. 

He settles into the feeling, building up a rhythm, showing off for his audience of one and it doesn’t take long before he knows he has to stop or end this all with the touch of his own hand. 

Thomas slicks Tom’s prick, touch light, deliberately teasing and lies down, back to chest, snug and warm in the tiny bed. It’s not ideal because Tom is shorter than him but he catches on quick, tucks himself between Thomas’s thighs, one hand at Thomas’s hip to measure the pace as he begins to move. 

It’s tacky, sticky between them as Tom slides against Thomas’s bollocks, a pleasant ache, knowledge of what’s to come, his prick straining with anticipation rather than direct pleasure; he wants Tom to touch him but doesn’t want to ask for it just yet. He squeezes his thighs tighter and focuses on each sensation as they come to him, the cool metal of the bed frame under his fingertips, Tom’s breath, hot on the back of his neck, the scratch of his chest hair and the little noises of effort he makes as he works himself between Thomas’s thighs. 

He’s getting desperate to touch and be touched, regretful now that he can’t see Tom’s face, wanting to be closer, wanting to come. 

‘Tom, _please,’_ it comes out on a gasp, barely audible but Tom understands, heaves Thomas up, back against his chest, finding stability on their knees, one hand covering Thomas’s on the bars at the head of the bed, the other finding his cock, stroking him fast and certain. 

It’s all Thomas can do to keep himself upright, thrusting back against Tom and into his hand, chasing that perfect spiraling pleasure until he’s gasping, coming and sinking forward, his forehead against the pillows. Tom follows him down, covers him and Thomas reaches back to find his hip, encouraging him to keep going, keep moving, the way eased by Thomas’s spend, slick between his thighs. Tom is murmuring nonsense, his movements erratic until he stills, breath staccato in Thomas’s ear and comes. 

After a beat Thomas turns over to face him. They’re both breathing hard, sweaty and disheveled like there’s no denying what they’ve been doing and there’s no space in the bed to do anything but entwine their limbs until they’ve caught their breath. 

‘We’ll have to be careful.’

‘I know.’

Tom doesn't seem inclined to say anything more so Thomas goes to the basin in the corner, wets a flannel and wrings it out, the water is cold but it’ll have to do if they’re to get away with this. On impulse he goes back to the bed first, to where Tom is lying, watching him, looking languorous and like he could sleep at any moment, like he _needs_ to sleep. 

Thomas sits beside him on the bed and he’s gentle, cleaning Tom’s thighs, his belly, his prick where it’s soft now and vulnerable. There are degrees to the intimacy between a valet and the man he serves, rules to dictate every action, and Tom ignores them all when he sits up to take the cloth from Thomas’s hands, ‘here let me,’ and tidies Thomas up too. It’s not a parody of Thomas’s position or a favour for services rendered but a gift; in this they are equal. 

They get dressed in silence and Tom is ready first, standing by the door while Thomas laces up his shoes.

‘I’ll see you later then?’ 

This is as close as they’ll get to agreeing out loud that they’re not going to stop and even so it feels dangerous to speak, to give it voice, but Thomas knows he has to, for Tom’s sake as much as his own. It will have to end eventually but it won’t yet and they need to be together on this, ‘of course.’

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

December 1921 

How they get away with it Tom has no idea. 

He feels a little bad to be exploiting the preoccupation of the rest of the house but it works in their favour and soon they have a routine; every chance they get, when everyone has gone to bed for the night, Thomas will sneak down to Tom’s bedroom. It has to be Tom’s bedroom, generally the only room occupied in the Bachelor’s Corridor and well away from anyone who might get up in the night. They’ve perfected the signals, the looks across the Dining Room that say, _not tonight_ or _later._ The number of times Tom has sent a Hallboy to fetch Thomas on a spurious errand feels like tempting fate but Thomas is a good actor and no one is any the wiser. 

Once they're alone together there’s a shift, a change in the air between them. Sometimes there’s no prevaricating and they’re kissing as soon as Thomas is through the door, other times it’s a slower climb to falling into bed with conversation coming first as they enjoy the tension that drawing it out can bring. Occasionally they don’t even have sex, a fact Tom has surprised himself with not minding, and they just lie together quietly or talk into the darkness. Sometimes Thomas doesn’t show up at all and sometimes he does with a face like thunder. Tom has his moments too, where he’s quiet, refusing to think too far ahead, to the conversation that might come after, like working out a splinter, painful but necessary. When there’s laughter he feels more guilty about it than anything else he does with Thomas in his bed because if he’s laughing he’s forgetting what brought him here; the distraction he needed from his grief. 

Tonight, though, Tom is feeling untroubled and the smile Thomas gave him over dinner was enough of a promise to make him nervous with anticipation. He’s reading a book, fully dressed on top of the bedclothes, trying not to look too much like he’s waiting when Thomas comes in the door. He doesn’t even bother to knock these days, a habit which is infuriating and quietly pleasing in its proof of how well their lives slot together, in spite of everything. 

Thomas holds up the box he’s carrying without explanation and comes over to kiss Tom gently. It’s brief and without heat so Tom knows this will be an evening of gentle touches and slow escalation. Thomas’s face is clear, not clouded with worry, so the bed is where they will end up, it just might take them a while to get there. They’re careful about it, alert to the rhythms of the house, adept at changing their plans at a moment's notice. No one will come this way down the corridor and if they do, all they’ll see is the low light under Tom’s door and assume he can’t sleep. Thomas has hours before he has to sneak back to bed and so long as they’re quiet it will be easy. 

‘I thought I could mend your waistcoat while I’m here,’ Thomas is opening the box and pulling out thread, turning a thimble over in his hands.

‘You don’t need to,’ says Tom but he’s already going over to the wardrobe to find the waistcoat, torn down one seam which Thomas accepts with a smile, their hands brushing gently.

While Tom was buried in the wardrobe he'd taken off his jacket, kicked off his shoes, sitting at the desk in his shirt sleeves like he’s made himself at home. 

Tom goes back to the bed and his book as Thomas sets about fixing the tear, his movements quick and precise, tiny stitches that no one but Tom will ever appreciate. He could easily mend it himself, perhaps not quite as well as Thomas, but he’s slowly learning that Thomas likes to be helpful, where he can, to take care of Tom in a way that isn’t like work, even when it is. It’s intimate, domestic; it scares Tom and excites him how _easy_ this all seems to be now they’ve decided to carry on with it. 

‘How did you even manage to do this,’ Thomas tuts, almost to himself, ‘are you sure it’s not just getting too small for you?’

He eyes Tom in a way that is very deliberate and want simmers between them briefly. 

‘You know it isn’t,’ says Tom, ‘Sybbie and I were playing and it got a bit boisterous.’

‘I bet Nanny was delighted.’

‘She wasn’t over the moon, I'll give you that.’

Thomas regards him for a moment, as if he has something more to say.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Thomas shakes his head and goes back to his sewing. Tom won’t push him, if what he has to say is important he’ll say it eventually and it never does any good to force something out of him.

After a vague attempt to carry on reading Tom abandons his book to watch Thomas instead, the turn of his wrist, the flexing of his fingers, his intense look of concentration. The repetitive motion is lulling and Tom suddenly remembers how late it is, how little time they have to get away with this.

‘Thomas, come here.’

‘I’m nearly done,’ Thomas snips off a loose thread and admires his work before getting up to put the waistcoat away in the wardrobe. 

Back at the desk he tidies up with such deliberate slowness Tom knows he’s doing it on purpose, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, just to make Tom repeat himself.

‘Thomas, come here. Please.’

Thomas puts down the needle and thread and comes to stand beside Tom on the bed, standing to attention in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ Tom takes his hands, runs his fingers over Thomas’s knuckles and kisses him there.

‘It was only the seam,’ says Thomas, he shrugs but his voice sounds tight and Tom lets himself be pulled up to standing. If Thomas likes to be helpful, he likes to be thanked even more.

‘I know.’

Their first proper kiss of the evening is deep and slow, Thomas’s hands on his jaw and their bodies pressed together from thigh to chest. The anxiety from earlier has transformed into anticipation and an aching desire for skin against skin. Thomas, as ever, appears to have other ideas and Tom is always willing to let him steer, to reveal, by degrees, new avenues of as yet unexplored pleasure. 

Thomas undresses them efficiently, his mouth never straying far from Tom’s jaw, his neck, gentle touches that ground him and stop Tom feeling too much like Thomas is playing the role of valet, here. When he’s nearly got Tom out of all of his clothes Thomas stills and lets him take over until they’re stripped naked and kissing at the edge of the bed and down on to it. 

On his back against the sheets, Tom relaxes into the feeling of Thomas tracing patterns over his chest with the tips of his fingers, trailing the path of his mouth across Tom’s skin. His hands are cool where Tom’s skin is warm and the prickle of goosebumps follows each touch. Thomas moves further down the bed, sucking a mark to Tom’s hip, careful, where no one will see, hands at his thighs, his grip firm and thrilling. 

‘You don’t have to…’ Tom can guess where Thomas is heading and they’ve not done this yet; it feels to Tom like a very one sided act, like there can’t be much in it for the person not on the receiving end and it’s not something he’s often asked for from other lovers or been offered before. 

‘I want to,’ Thomas smiles up at him with a look so full of heat it makes Tom blush, ‘I’m very good at it,’ but he does sit up then, lean back on his haunches to say, ‘if you don’t like it we can…’

‘No, no. It’s just, do you like it? Do you like - I mean…’ Tom trails off lamely tired of revealing his inexperience in this but Thomas just smiles at him and it doesn’t matter in the slightest.

‘I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t,’ Thomas tilts forward to kiss him and when they break apart Tom nods, once, and watches, awestruck, as Thomas moves back down the bed to take him into his mouth. 

Thomas starts slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook him, but it’s such a perfect, wet heat that Tom quickly lets go of any lingering reticence in favour of clutching desperately at the bedsheets and trying not to make a sound. Thomas’s certainty always helps Tom to take all this in his stride, to enjoy himself with abandon. 

Tom sinks into the feeling, Thomas’s tongue just at the tip of his cock, lapping at him with light, fluttering touches; it’s a tease, a sensation Tom can’t get a handle on and one he desperately wants more of but doesn’t know how to ask for. His hands hover awkwardly. He wants a connection between them that’s more than Thomas’s mouth on his prick but putting his hands in Thomas’s hair without asking seems presumptuous and everytime he opens his mouth all he can manage are ragged consonants and unformed thoughts. Thomas seems to understand, though, finds one of Tom’s hands and threads it into his hair, moves up and off Tom’s prick to say, ‘show me how you like it.’

Tom shakes his head in disbelief but Thomas is already swallowing him down again, deeper this time, flattening his tongue against the underside of Tom’s prick and hollowing his cheeks. He strokes his hands through Thomas’s hair, separating the strands, scratching his nails against Thomas’s scalp in the way he likes and that seems to be encouragement enough for Thomas to pick up his pace and his dedication to the task at hand. 

Caught up in the pleasure of it Tom keeps forgetting to breathe, focusing on keeping his hips still, not demanding too much and then Thomas hums around his prick, moans low in his throat and the vibration is almost too much to bear, the confirmation that Thomas is getting something from this too. 

‘Fuck, _Thomas,_ I’m -’ Tom tries to choke out a warning but Thomas doesn’t relent, swallows him down as he comes, easing him through it into quiet, sated stillness. 

Tom doesn’t wait to get his breath back before he hauls Thomas up to meet him, mouth to mouth, finding the taste of himself on Thomas’s tongue less off putting than he might have imagined as he rolls Thomas beneath him. Thomas is achingly hard, rocking against Tom in desperation, as Tom gets a thigh between Thomas’s legs and his hand on Thomas’s prick to stroke him firmly, quickly to completion. With his own pleasure so satisfactorily taken care of he can focus precisely on Thomas, on what Tom’s learned he likes and give it to him, while watching as he falls apart. 

Thomas is brazen in the moments after, confident in Tom’s attention, walking about the room without a stitch on and it makes Tom’s face heat. Once he’s tidied himself up he finds Tom’s dressing gown and slips it on, he looks ridiculous, it’s too short and far too big in the shoulders and Tom can’t help but laugh. 

‘What do you look like?’

Thomas looks affronted but he’s smiling too, clutching the dressing gown closed almost primly as he moves the chair and opens a window to smoke, ‘like you, I should imagine.’

Tom’s long since given up telling Thomas not to smoke after; it's the small hours of the morning so there will be no one in the grounds to spot him. Tom supposes that the housemaid who clears the cigarette butts off the window ledge will simply assume Tom has taken up smoking in his grief and he can’t deny there is something appealing about the particular way Thomas smokes a cigarette. 

Tom carries on watching him for a beat before he pulls the covers back over himself. They don’t go in for pillow talk much, it’s not who they are together, but it frightens Tom sometimes how much of himself he’s revealed in the tender moments before dawn. There are sides to Thomas he never thought he’d see too, although long suspected were there, and in the moments where Thomas is totally at ease in his company, laughing and relaxed, Tom doesn’t know how Thomas will cope when it’s over, how he himself will cope. 

Thomas finishes his cigarette and comes back to bed, leaving the dressing gown over the back of the chair, slipping under the covers to press himself against Tom, kissing his shoulder, collarbones, smiling as their lips meet.

‘It looks better on you, don’t worry,’ Thomas says when they part. 

He gets back out of the bed almost as quickly as he got in it, sorting through the jumble of their clothes to find his own as Tom watches him sadly. The reality is simple; they can’t do this forever. Neither of them believe this to be a great romance but it’s not for nothing that they’ve found some peace in each other’s company. 

He just hopes when it comes down to it both of them are able to survive it. 

*

Tom gets dressed alone the next morning. He sets the waistcoat Thomas fixed the night before on the bed, looking properly at the repair in the brighter light of morning. The stitches are perfect, neat rows so close to invisible that no one would suspect it had been mended. 

He had wondered, in the days after he went to see Thomas in his room all those weeks ago, how it could be possible for something like this to fit so seamlessly into his life, how he could dare to presume they’d get away with it. Now he can’t imagine the alternative; the evenings and afternoons, when the house is empty, spent with Thomas are bringing him out of the darkness, where everything isn’t just pain and grief for the loss of Sybil and Matthew. 

Tom thinks all the time about what they would think of him, sharing his bed with a servant, a _man_ , how much those distinctions would matter. He suspects they would both care less than they should but neither of them are here and it’s only Tom who has to reconcile the man he was with them and the man he is now. Their absence is what brought him hereto this understanding, he loathes to call it an _arrangement,_ with Thomas and although it can’t fill the space they’ve left behind it creates something new in it's place. It's selfish and it's risky and it’s enough for the time being to hope him and Thomas can hold on to it for a little longer. 

He puts on the waistcoat and when he heads down for breakfast Thomas is in the Great Hall carrying up the newspapers for Mr Carson. 

‘Good morning, sir.’ 

Tom nods at him as he passes, ‘good morning.’

Thomas’s answering smile is one that he recognises - the one full of promise: _later -_ and it's one more day worth taking the risk for. 


	6. Chapter 6

December 1921

‘Mr Barrow?’ says Mrs Hughes and Thomas looks up at her from his newspaper and a particularly difficult crossword clue, ‘Mr Branson is looking for you upstairs.’

‘What for?’ feigning disinterest has never been so important as it is now but luckily for him everyone downstairs has already reached every assumption they can about his motives in all matters and aren’t about to start looking too hard for new ones.

It’s mid afternoon, tea already cleared away and hours to go before dinner. The house has felt busy all day with everyone marching about from room to room and Thomas can’t imagine the pretext Tom can possibly have concocted to talk to him _now._

‘I don’t know, do I. I suggest you go up and ask him,’ says Mrs Hughes with her usual exasperated look as she heads back out of the room, ‘he was in the Great Hall when I spoke to him.’ 

*

As soon as he’s in through the door to Tom's bedroom Tom is kissing him, his hands firm on Thomas’s waist, insistent with desire. It’s been a few days since they’ve been able to be together like this with too many responsibilities for both of them getting in the way but the sky is bright outside and the sounds of the house around them intrude on all sides. Thomas thinks vaguely of slowing them down, checking if Tom is sure, but the click of the lock spurs him on, to kiss back with proper enthusiasm.

‘You do seem to keep coming back to me, to this,’ says Thomas, breathless, half out of his jacket, back up against the door. He asks it like a question but one he doesn’t really want to know the answer to. 

‘It’ll be over by Christmas,’ says Tom, a familiar refrain and he does sound sure of himself, but he’s also got a hand in Thomas’s trousers, stroking him firmly, which undermines the certainty slightly.

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Thomas nips at Tom’s bottom lip with his teeth, laughing.

‘I mean it,’ Tom is clearly _trying_ to mean it but Thomas is being deliberately distracting, efficient on the buttons of Tom’s waistcoat.

‘We don’t have long,’ says Thomas, he means now, this afternoon, but they both know they’re on borrowed time with this. 

Thomas has spent more time in Tom’s bed than his own since mid-November and every time it’s the same; they fuck and talk about the people they’ve lost and soon it will have to end but it’s easier to live encounter to encounter, and all Tom says in answer is, ‘hurry up then,’ as he smiles into a kiss.

There’s an eagerness to Tom that Thomas has rarely seen as he’s steered across the room to the bed. He finds himself gently redirected each time he tries to reciprocate and it’s thrilling to be the focus of all that energy as Tom kisses him, thoroughly maps Thomas’s mouth, his hands finding their way into Thomas’s clothes. 

He’s only half undressed but Tom seems to be content just to kiss, tangled on top of the bedclothes, one hand at the small of Thomas’s back to keep them pressed close until Thomas shifts, an incidental movement to get more comfortable and it slots them together, thigh between thigh, rocking against each other to chase that giddy, desperate feeling of indirect pleasure. He’s not got off like this since he was a much younger man, snatching hurried moments and not caring enough to stop whatever the cost of being caught. Only they won’t be caught here, the door is locked and no one will be expecting anything of him for a while yet, if he’s lucky.

They’re breathing harshly, gasping, breath hot and close when Tom suddenly moves across the bed creating a gulf of cool air between them. In the pause Thomas just stares at the ceiling, tries to reign in the frantic beating of his heart but then Tom is back beside him, kissing along Thomas’s jawline and the hand he gets into Thomas’s trousers is slick now, stroking him slow and steady until he’s gasping, shifting his hips and begging.

‘Please, _please_.’

Tom just chuckles, pressing closer. Thomas can feel Tom’s prick hard against his hip but he’s still mostly buttoned up in all his clothes and even though Thomas has his eyes shut he knows Tom’s watching him. It’s hard not to put on a show, to just let himself enjoy the quick slip of Tom’s hand unselfconsciously. He knows he looks good, he doesn’t have to work at it and regardless Tom _wants_ to see him like this, wants the truth of it, they’ve laid themselves bare to each other in more ways than one and in this at least they are always honest. 

His whole body feels tense, searching for release, arching and aching towards the mindless pleasure of being taken care of in this way. Tom knows him too well to not be doing it on purpose; drawing it out, stroking him slowly, thumb at the head of his prick, spreading the wet there. The pace keeps changing too, whenever Thomas thinks he can settle, go with it and relax, Tom changes the speed of his hand, fast to slow, slow to fast until Thomas is undone. 

‘Thomas,’ says Tom, low in his ear and he has to repeat himself before Thomas can get a handle on the words, the meaning, ‘Thomas, look at me.’

Thomas opens his eyes and it’s a struggle, the room feeling unnaturally bright, but Tom is looking down at him and despite the level tone of his voice his cheeks are pink and he’s clearly more affected than he’s pretending to be.

It takes a beat for Thomas to realise Tom has stopped moving his hand and he shifts up experimentally into his loose grip, sucking in a breath at the feeling. At the movement Tom closes his eyes, presses his prick almost imperceptibly against Thomas’s hip and groans. So Thomas does it again, and again, and then Tom joins in, moving his hand in counterpoint, pulling Thomas right back to the edge. 

He keeps his eyes open now and Tom doesn’t stop watching him, shifting against him, grip firm again on Thomas’s cock, not varying his stroke. Thomas can’t bear it, the relentless sensation is overwhelming but it feels too good to stop. He clings to the bed sheets and lets it happen. All of the tension in his body builds to a perfect shimmering plateau before he comes, quiet and gasping, and Tom closes his eyes and bends his head and Thomas knows he’s found his release too.

He turns to Tom and kisses him, his hands trailing lower even though there’s no point, now, and they lie there, sticky and sated, until they have no choice but to move. The sounds of the house, which had receded in the heat of the moment, filter back to them now and Tom swears softly as he gets up and heads to the wardrobe to change. He’s quiet, as Thomas watches him dressing to go out, all that intensity dissipated as he collects himself to face the rest of them. 

Thomas is still sitting on the bed when Tom breaks the silence, ‘leave it a few minutes and follow me out.’

‘Of course.’

Tom heads to the door and then turns suddenly to walk over to Thomas and kiss him, once, gentle in parting. He seems preoccupied, distracted; it’s not unusual, it’s jarring to go from one state to another, to be as they are in private and apart everywhere else but it still unsettles Thomas, as much as he’s used to it by now, as Tom smiles sadly at him and leaves.

The clock on the dresser ticks through a whole minute before Thomas stands to leave too. Through the door he can hear voices, distant but unmistakable, and he waits a beat before stepping into the corridor. The hallway outside Tom’s room is thankfully empty but he doesn’t have to go far and there’s Tom, deep in conversation with Lord Grantham, at the top of the stairs. Thomas doesn’t want to pass them to get to the Servant’s Stairs so he stands unobtrusively to attention at the edge of the corridor, waiting and watching. Lord Grantham is dressed to go out too and Tom is standing with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet as he listens. He’s nodding but his gaze slides off Lord Grantham’s face and he makes eye contact with Thomas for a brief, sparkling moment and Thomas can’t help but smile although Tom’s face remains serious. 

Lord Grantham clasps Tom on the shoulder with a laugh as he turns to head down the stairs and towards the front door and it’s jarring, suddenly, to watch; the familiarity, the ease with which they speak to each other. It hasn’t been easy for Tom, that much is clear, and Thomas doesn’t want to begrudge him making the best of it but to see him and Lord Gratham speaking so cordially only serves to highlight how different his life is from the one he had downstairs. Thomas has waited at table for long enough to see how uncomfortable it still makes Tom to be the object of scrutiny when conversation turns to him or when the family have guests but this is different - a father and his son-in-law talking quietly, at ease in each other’s company. 

Tom stands waiting, looking down at the floor, before he comes over to Thomas and it’s clear from the furtive glance he gives to the empty corridor that he didn’t expect to have to speak to him here, so soon. 

‘I have to go out,’ says Tom, although Thomas knows that already, ‘I’ll find you later.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Thomas is careful, keeps up his mask of professionalism, voice neutral, gaze not averted as much as abstracted and Tom looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

Tom’s unease could be chalked up to his discomfort at being treated with a different sort of respect by people he used to work beside but Thomas knows it’s not that. Tom stands there stiffly, like he doesn’t know how to leave without touching Thomas in some way, like he can’t leave who they are to each other in the bedroom as easily as Thomas can. Thomas is used to it, playing the game in public spaces, enjoying the pretense or seeing how much you can get away with; standing too close, or letting your hands brush. He doesn’t do that with Tom much, it isn’t fair, he’s not familiar with the rules and losing for him is far more than the end of an affair. 

He doesn’t want anything from Tom he isn’t willing to give and Tom’s been crossing boundaries ever since he arrived at Downton but it’s a knife edge they have to walk, an uncomfortable reality whenever they’re together in proximity to other people. They talk about Lady Sybil often, her kindness, her ambition, but they’ve not spoken much about the first tentative moments of their relationship, blossoming across so many divides. God knows how Tom dealt with that if he can barely make eye contact with Thomas in an empty corridor but it’s not the same and it never will be. Lady Sybil was not like Thomas, who is merely a convenience before Tom meets someone new, and he will find someone eventually, as he must, and when it happens Thomas will have to step aside.

Tom nods and heads down the stairs, he doesn’t turn to look as he crosses the Hall but Thomas watches him until he’s out of sight. 

*

They’re just about to eat in the Servant’s Hall when Tom comes down, dressed for dinner.

The scraping of chairs as everyone stands, some more reluctantly than others, puts Thomas on edge. Upstairs is one thing, the Family going about their lives without much thought to the servants around them, but down here, where they know him better than he might like, the scrutiny is real, the desire for gossip never quite sated and he can see O’Brien, across the table, calculating and shrewd as she watches what’s about to play out.

‘How can we help you, Mr Branson?’ Mrs Hughes is polite, her eyes sliding towards Mr Carson, who had stood when Tom walked in but remains otherwise silent.

‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ says Tom, looking startled, although how he can have already forgotten the rhythms of downstairs so soon, ‘I just wanted a word with Thomas - Mr Barrow?’ 

He says it like a request rather than an order, uncomfortable with the authority he has over them now. 

Mrs Hughes looks over at Thomas sharply, ‘did Mr Barrow not find you earlier? 

Thomas was gone for long enough she must have assumed he’d found Tom and been given a task and he has no excuse for his absence otherwise. 

‘Yes, but I was on my way out.’

‘Very well,’ Mrs Hughes nods and Thomas is let off the hook and dismissed at once. 

Thomas follows Tom out into the corridor and away from where they’ll be directly overheard; he still doesn’t know which version of himself he’s supposed to be here, servant or lover, and while it can be fun upstairs to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes and get away with it down here there are more agendas at play and very few of them are in his best interest. 

Tom pauses at the end of the corridor as if he can’t decide whether to take them outside; however suspect that will look, before turning to Thomas at the end of the hallway. 

‘I don’t want to keep you,’ Tom is speaking in an undertone, nervous like he was on the Bedroom Gallery earlier . 

‘Then don’t,’ Thomas tries to smile but Tom is looking serious again and it seems like he doesn't know how to begin. 

‘I’m sorry, for before,’ Tom’s eyes are fixed at the other end of the corridor and Thomas is at a loss as to what he’s apologising for now.

‘Sorry for what?’ 

‘For asking for you earlier, like that. It was selfish, we could have been caught.’ 

‘But we weren’t. We’re always careful.’ 

Thomas doesn’t say anything about how sensible coming to speak to him down here is with so many people around who are eager to listen but Tom looks fearful like he couldn’t bear to be teased. 

‘I wasn’t thinking that’s all,’ he runs his hand over his brow and the look on his face is exhaustion. 

Subconsciously, Thomas realises, he’s been slotting Tom into some abstract space between upstairs and down but that isn’t the true reality of their lives. Tom _does_ have a place upstairs now, he's in a position where Thomas can’t follow and with so much more to lose. He doesn’t know how he can fit into the life Tom has now or why Tom should keep coming back to him. He isn’t stupid; he’s warmed beds before. For days, for months. He’s made declarations he hasn’t meant and believed lies that were spoken like the truth but they have been finding excuses to carry on even though it’s a risk for months now and maybe this is the point Tom decides it isn’t worth it, maybe this is where it starts to unravel. 

Instead Tom surprises him, stepping away as if to leave but with a light touch of his hand to Thomas’s arm, ‘I’ll see you later?’ 

‘If you like?’

Tom doesn’t seem to want to let this go despite what it appears to cost him, to cost them both, ‘do you want to?’

‘Yes,’ Thomas nods because he does, because what they gain is worth it, for now, ‘do you?’ 

Tom makes eye contact, finally, and he looks relieved as he nods and smiles as, once again, Thomas watches him go. 


	7. Chapter 7

January 1922 

Tom feels a strange dipping sensation of anxiety when he wakes up and Thomas is still in his bed, sleeping motionless and quiet, warm beside him. The fire burned out long ago but the sky outside is pitch black so there’s time yet before Thomas will have to sneak back to his room. 

Thomas sleeps on his back, his sharp profile pale in the darkness; he’s always so still but quick to wake and Tom regrets that he’ll have to interrupt his much needed rest. They try not to do this, fall asleep in Tom’s room, but it’s late, often, when they get a chance to meet. It’s reckless, for sure, far more likely they’ll be discovered, but Thomas always seems reluctant to leave and Tom is always reluctant to send him away. 

When they can be alone theirs is an easy companionship, although Thomas can still be spiky if Tom touches on the wrong nerve and Tom knows he has a tendency to be too introspective, fretful and over cautious. He worries all the time about it ending, not because they’ve chosen to but because they’ve been caught, and in those moments he supposes he understands a little of the fear Thomas has lived with all his life. It’s fear enough to keep him wary, not enough to make him stop.

Tom turns on the bedside lamp, casting a circle of pale gold light across the bed but Thomas doesn’t stir.

‘Thomas, _Thomas_ ,’ Tom’s voice sounds so loud although he’s barely speaking above a whisper, the touch of his hand to Thomas’s arm is light but he still flinches, blinking himself awake. 

Thomas doesn’t say anything but the change in him is immediate, the languor of sleep giving way to a sudden rigidity as he wakes and realises where he is, sighing and releasing the tension as he looks up at the ceiling. 

‘What time is it?’

‘Late. Or early depending on how you want to look at it,’ Tom hasn’t looked at the clock but he knows instinctively that they can’t have been asleep for long. 

Thomas nods and doesn’t move.

‘We still have time?’

Tom turns to his side and Thomas turns with him so they’re face to face but neither of them speak and the silence turns into a kiss as easy as breathing. It’s soft, mellow, but not tentative; there’s no expectation that it might go somewhere but, as ever, if either of them escalates the other will follow. 

They lie there for a moment, wrapped up in each other’s arms and pressed together beneath the covers Tom can feel Thomas’s prick, already hard again. That alone is gratifying enough but they’re both naked, the appeal of all that warm skin is undeniable, and it’s easy to give into temptation because sex is simple, they’re both young men, and closeness like this is one answer to what they both need. 

Thomas rolls on to his back and takes Tom with him, settling their weight, opening his legs around Tom’s hips and that’s distraction enough for the time being. They only fucked a few hours ago but there’s an insistent desire under Tom’s skin and Thomas is moving against him with purpose, Tom’s prick in the cleft of his arse, not inside, not yet, but playing at it. 

The house is silent around them and it’s enough to pretend in these brief moments that none of it exists beyond the movement of their bodies and the need to find release. They shift again and in the space between them Thomas works two fingers into himself, eyes closed, enjoying it already where he’s soft and open from before. 

Tom kisses Thomas’s jaw, his neck, breathes in the scent of him, soap and silver polish and whatever he uses in his hair. It gets stuck in Tom’s sheets, in his clothes; he worries that other people will know, that they will look into his eyes and see the truth there, where there is no hiding what he does with this man in his bed.

‘Are you ready for me?’

Thomas nods, opens his eyes, his eyelashes dark and damp as he looks up and smiles, lets himself be kissed and held as Tom enters him. 

The air in the room is cool, the covers pushed to the end of the bed, but Tom feels warm, burning up all over as he moves, finding a rhythm. Earlier, he fucked Thomas on his side, chest to back, slowly, drawing it out and taking his time, now they’re clutching at each other tightly, Thomas’s hands firm on the nape of his neck, his shoulders, desperate and gasping. 

There’s something more intense about this than before, they can see each other’s faces for one thing, and climax seems to be further away, tantalising as they work for it. Thomas’s body shines with sweat in the low light, his breath harsh with effort; he looks delirious, beatific as Tom aims true with his thrusts, fucks him closer and closer to orgasm with neither of them having to touch his cock. 

Thomas has his eyes closed, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, the other firm on Tom’s flank; a different sort of tension to earlier, yearning towards release. Tom keeps himself steady, knows only quick, determined movement, focused and sure as he tries to get Thomas to the end first. 

He watches Thomas fall apart, probably feels it before he does, the sudden perfect point before everything softens and Thomas paints himself with come up to his chest. He’s laughing in the moments after, eyes open now as he strokes Tom’s hair and presses with his heels into the small of Tom’s back to get him moving again. Everything is sweaty and sticky between them and it doesn’t take much, a few gentle rolls of his hips into the hot, insistent clutch of Thomas’s body and he’s there too, groaning out his release into the meat of Thomas’s shoulder while Thomas draws patterns down his spine with a gentle hand. 

They kiss with too much intensity for men so recently spent and part by mutual agreement so Thomas can get up to find a cloth to clean them with. 

‘How often do you think about them now?’ says Tom to the ceiling. They still talk about Sybil and Matthew but less and less. Tom worries it means he’s forgetting, like if it doesn’t hurt he’s not remembering properly. 

‘I try not to dwell on it,’ says Thomas quietly as he gets back into bed, ‘but little things always remind me. Of her especially.’ 

Tom feels a wave of sentiment, sitting up to look at Thomas, suddenly needing to share the feeling, the memory of a bright, shiny day, ‘do you remember that cricket match?’ 

He felt at peace then, without Sybil for the first time, welcomed by Matthew, accepted by Robert and he remembers it now fondly rather than with pain. 

‘What?’ Thomas is not looking at him, running a cool, damp flannel across Tom’s thighs.

‘In 1920? You were very good,’ Tom nudges Thomas with his shoulder and grins but Thomas is still looking away, tense and dissatisfied with the turn of the conversation. 

‘I’m good at cricket, that’s something to keep me around for at least,’ his voice is blank, distracted, arms crossed over his chest, face passive and unreadable.

Tom was caught up in his own worries that summer, barely aware of anything outside of himself and Sybbie, untethered without Sybil and resistant to any attempt to encourage him to join in but from the few details Thomas has shared he can’t imagine the knife edge he was living on for those few weeks. He wishes he hadn’t brought it up. 

‘They _needed_ me but they didn’t _want_ me. Sometimes I think if they could have played the game without me I wouldn’t be here right now.’

If Thomas always lands on his feet, wiggles out of the trap, if he’s conniving and calculating it’s because he _has_ to be, because the consequences are too awful to even think of. He’s been lucky so far, there’s no guarantee, for either of them, but Tom has to admit he’s on somewhat safer ground than he once might have been, protected implicitly by the family. 

‘Sorry, I didn't mean…’ Tom catches Thomas’s wrist but doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Thomas shrugs, his face clearing somewhat as he turns to look at Tom sadly.

‘You can find someone else, get married again, but for me, this sort of thing is all I’m ever likely to have. I can live with the risk, some people can’t. And sometimes I get it wrong. See things in people I'm only hoping are there and I have to live with the consequences of that.’ 

Thomas never tells him any of their names but it’s not hard to work out who he means. He talks about people Tom knows and people he’s heard of but never met and it’s a lot to realise how much power he’s being handed when Thomas opens up to him. 

Tonight, though, Thomas doesn’t sound belligerent, like he often can, more like resigned, to being alone, to loving unrequited, to warming someone’s bed while it’s easy and being made to leave when it isn’t. Tom hates the part he’s played in that too and there is nothing he can say in answer. He knows Thomas is asking him if _he_ can live with the consequences, if _he_ can bear the risk and if he’s honest with himself it’s increasingly clear that he can’t. 

Thomas doesn’t give him a chance to answer, letting him off the hook as he tucks his foot between Tom’s calves and says, ‘sorry, what did you want to say about cricket?’ 

It's as good a reprieve as he's going to get and it will only make it worse not to carry on.

‘I was thinking about Matthew, really. I was resentful towards him at first, For trying to get me to join in. But I realised I couldn’t always have one foot out the door, that if I wanted to be with her I had to accept her family too, as people if nothing else. And then after he died...it was easier to believe it when he was here.’ 

Thomas is quiet for a while and then he says, ‘that’s true, I suppose, but it would always have been easier for Mr Crawley, to accept them as they are.’

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘He was going to inherit. What do you have now? A better job and their grudging respect? But they’ll never quite see you as an equal. So here we are and that’s what you’re doing with me. Always one foot out the door.’

Tom wants to be furious, there’s an insult there even if it’s carried with the truth and it rankles for someone to lay it out so clearly; that he’s a hypocrite, undecided even now. Except he _has_ made his choice, he made it when he married Sybil, for better or for worse, and with her beside him it was definitely for the better, now he’s not so sure. 

‘I don’t..?’ he pulls away from Thomas, ready for this to be one of their rare arguments but Thomas continues undaunted. 

‘As long as you’re doing this with me you’re not really living your life with them and eventually you’ll have to choose.’

He says it so matter of factly Tom almost can’t bear to look at him, can’t deny the truth so plainly spoken. Thomas is only talking about the two of them, what they have become to each other, but he knows how Thomas feels about the rest of it too. In so many other ways Tom has betrayed who he used to be, given up on his principles, abandoned ideals he thought were solid to the core; not because he disbelieves them but because they’re fundamentally incompatible with his current circumstances. Tom had thought to find comfort with the only person in this house he felt he had any common ground with, but they are not the same, in so many ways, and the gap between them is widening all the time even as they become closer, more intimate. 

‘Are you saying you want to stop? You’re not obligated...’ it’s a familiar deflection, insisting that Thomas doesn’t have to be here when they both know he wants to be. 

Thomas rolls his eyes, ‘I know. And I don’t want to stop but one day you’ll have to choose and you won’t choose this.’ 

He gestures between them but he means you won’t choose _me_ which is all Thomas wants in the end. To be chosen, to be wanted. Maybe not by Tom, if they’re being honest with themselves, but by _someone._ It’s what he deserves and he won’t get it while they’re still doing this. Tom likes him, enjoys his company, _wants_ him by many definitions of the word but not in a way that’s permanent. 

Tom knows now that Thomas will never be the one to end it, that he will never risk the familiarity and security of being wanted even if it means accepting an approximation of what he needs, that when it ends it will have to be Tom that does it and it will have to be sooner rather than later.

Thomas has finished tidying them up. He’s sat back against the pillows beside Tom, hands tense like he needs a smoke, as he says, ‘we don’t have to talk about it now.’

Tom smiles, takes his hand for a moment, comfort and reassurance both, ‘no, we don’t have to talk about it now.’ 

‘I should get back before anyone has a chance to miss me,’ Thomas slips out of bed and it’s such a familiar sight, now, to see him gathering his clothes from Tom’s floor, it’s jarring to think there will be a finite number of times left for it to happen. 

‘Don’t forget, there’s that party at the end of the month. I’ll probably need you to _actually_ dress me, if Carson can spare you,’ Tom smiles, teasing, but he can feel the words, hollow in his throat, a transparent attempt to shift the mood, to not end the evening on a sour note. 

‘You should ask Alfred, really, if you need someone to act as valet,’ Thomas grins as he buttons up his waistcoat, oblivious or pretending to be. 

‘I don’t want to ask Alfred.’

‘Good,’ Thomas comes over to kiss him, ‘I don’t want you to either.’

When they started this they were both lost, broken men, but something has shifted, somewhere along the way, and clarity can be uncomfortable; as long as they carry on they’re getting beyond their pain but no further and if they’re not careful they’ll be worse off than they were before. Tom doesn’t want to lose this, not yet, but it’s a question of when rather than a question of if, as it always has been.

Thomas is standing at the door, another familiar sight, smiling lightly like everything they’ve talked about is of little consequence to him but then they’re both used to shifting quickly from one state to another and denying in the aftermath the significance of yet another revelation. 

For the first time in a long while it makes Tom feel lonely. 


	8. Chapter 8

Thomas gets them out of their clothes, ignoring years of training to leave them strewn across the floor, anything to get over to the bed as quickly as possible. Tom’s grip is firm, his mouth on Thomas’s collarbones, as he pulls them down onto the mattress and Thomas lets him lead; he’s enthusiastic, less tentative by far than the first few times they did this, and it feels good to be wanted. Too often Thomas has found himself with men who couldn’t accept this part of themselves; they wanted it and they’d take it from him but they’d hate him for it. There’s no point in pretending; Tom has loved women and undoubtedly will again but he doesn’t couch what they do together in denial, here at least he meets Thomas as an equal, certain about what he wants and vocal about enjoying it. 

‘I want...I want…,’ Tom is less than coherent in the present moment, shifting his hips against Thomas, finding a rhythm that slowly builds into a distracting pleasure between them, ‘I want to get you ready for me.’ 

Tom’s hands are on his arse, fingertips digging into the flesh there and his meaning couldn’t be clearer; rarely does anyone offer but Thomas loves it when they do, feeling cared for, rather than simply a means to an end. In all the time they’ve been doing this he usually does it himself, here or in his own room before he heads down in the evening, for efficiency's sake if nothing else, but Tom has never expressed an interest in the act itself beyond occasionally watching. All of this had been new to him and he takes it in his stride but Thomas is careful even now not to go too far or expect too much. 

‘If you’re sure?’ Thomas says, half sitting up to look at Tom properly, his cheeks are flushed, his eyelashes dark over his pale eyes, but he’s smiling, utterly certain and Thomas won’t refuse him. 

The vaseline is between the mattress and the headboard where Tom always hides it in anticipation. Thomas normally teases him for it, his concern for the sensibilities of the housemaids, changing the sheets in the bedrooms of bachelors, but not today. He settles himself against the pillows, Tom tucked in close, Thomas’s knees wide around his hips. It’s exposing, for sure, even though the light in the room isn’t bright, the late afternoon sunlight dimmed through the half closed curtains. They seem to keep stumbling on greater intimacies, sharing more of themselves and their bodies each time they do this and it’s terrifying for Thomas to admit to himself how much he needs it, to be treated with respect.

Tom is gentle, brows furrowed in concentration, one finger stroking, hesitantly at Thomas’s entrance until he presses forward up to the first knuckle, then further, all the way inside. 

_ ‘Christ _ ,’ Tom breathes out, like he’s been holding his breath, inching forward, eyes fixed on his hand where his finger is disappearing into Thomas’s body like he can’t tear his eyes away, ‘is that ok, is that…?’

‘ _ Yes.  _ Carry on.’ 

‘How…?’ Tom looks up, flushed, awestruck and it’s an unfairly endearing look on him. 

Thomas nods, ‘another.’ 

They stay still for a beat, breathing in sync, and then Tom starts to pull back, slicks his fingers again and goes in with two. He’s more confident now, certain he isn’t going to hurt Thomas, crossing his fingers and moving, searching inelegantly until Thomas’s hips kick of their own accord and he has to hold in a moan. Tom’s answering chuckle is warm, syrupy, making the hairs on Thomas’s arms stand on end, a shiver running through him. 

Thomas wants to revel in the attention but the afternoon is slipping away from them so for the sake of progress he makes an encouraging noise, shifts his hips and that seems to shake Tom out of his daze and into action, making him ready, dedicated now to the task.

At three fingers Thomas is desperate, shaking with need, moving against Tom’s hand with mindless certainty.

‘Ok, ok, I’m ready.’

Tom withdraws his hand unbearably slowly, his other hand pressing soothing patterns into Thomas’s thigh. He lines up his prick and enters Thomas gradually but confident again, letting him savour the feeling of fullness, more complete than just fingers, rocking his hips in gentle circles. It’s intoxicating, Thomas is already so on edge and it’s not enough as Tom pulls almost all the way out and back in again, starts up a rhythm that has Thomas chasing the feeling, pressing up into the touch. 

Above him Tom is all tender focus, looking into his eyes with a seriousness they don’t often go in for, in bed at least. Thomas is delirious with it, his prick hard and leaking against his belly, barely touched, and he’s so close, nudged higher and higher by the perfect, maddening rhythm of Tom’s hips and the touch of his hands across Thomas’s skin. Tom goes down on his elbows to catch Thomas’s mouth in a kiss, to brush the hair off Thomas’s forehead and whisper, ‘come for me.’ 

Thomas shakes his head, disbelieving, they’re barely moving, a slow undulation, his prick trapped between them and Tom so deep inside him. He can’t come like this no matter how much he wants it, he’s sure of it. 

Tom just smiles and doesn’t stop moving, repeats with such certainty, ‘come for me, love.’ 

Climax takes Thomas by surprise, intense and full-bodied, his mouth open on an unvoiced shout, clinging to Tom, hands in his hair and at the nape of his neck as Tom follows him over, sinks down with a sob against Thomas’s chest as he shakes apart, and Thomas gathers him up, arms tight around his shoulders. 

They lie still, wrapped up in each other for so long Thomas starts to forget that he still has most of a day's work ahead. If only they could stay here, lazily in bed, for the rest of the afternoon but there are things to do and responsibilities to get back to. Still, Tom seems reluctant to move and Thomas is forced to extricate himself apologetically from their tangle of limbs to find his clothes and tidy himself up. 

Buttoning up his waistcoat, Thomas watches Tom watching him from the bed.

‘I’ll see you before dinner?’

‘I’ve told you before I really don’t need the help, I can manage well enough on my own.’

Thomas doesn’t remind Tom he had asked for his help not that long ago, comes over to kiss him, a quick peck on the lips, ‘that’s not why. I want to.’

Tom looks sad for a moment, pain fleeting across his face but Thomas is used to it, it’s not regret so much as nostalgia. Sometimes, he watches Tom, his eyes shut, lost in pleasure, and wonders what he’s thinking of,  _ who  _ he’s thinking of; Sybil or Matthew or Thomas or some version of all three of them. He doesn’t begrudge him for it, there are lovers in both their lives that they’ve lost or never had, confidences they still don’t share. It’s been a few weeks since they last had a conversation that could have been considered to be about ending this and neither of them have brought it up again but Thomas is always wary, determined not to let it take him by surprise. 

‘You might as well come up after then,’ says Tom eventually and Thomas leaves before he can change his mind. 

*

Dinner is lively, festive, still carrying the excitement of Christmas and the New Year with it. There are a few guests and Old Lady Grantham up from the village and even Lady Mary has made it downstairs although she is quiet, sitting with Mrs Crawley, companions in their grief. 

Thomas prefers it busy, to have things to do to pass the time as it gets later and plenty of excuses to ask Tom if he needs anything, to stand too close and whisper in his ear. It’s a dangerous game but no one pays them a blind bit of notice and as the evening wears on, everyone gets more tipsy, and with all the to-ing and fro-ing no one questions Tom slipping away or wonders why Thomas might be following him, if they even notice at all. 

*

Tom’s room is warm, dimly lit, and there are two glasses of whisky on the dresser, one a full measure, the other half empty, but Tom is still dressed, looking out the window into the dark grounds, and his face reflected in the windowpane is solemn. Thomas takes off his own jacket, takes a sip from the full glass, lets the whisky burn on the way down, steels himself against the inevitable. 

He’s surprised, then, when Tom turns to him and smiles, accepts the glass that Thomas has brought over, leans in for a kiss, and settles his weight back against Thomas’s chest.

‘It felt better tonight, didn’t it, at dinner?’

Thomas is not meant to have an opinion on what transpires at Downton of an evening but there was a lightness in the room. Lady Mary was present at least, which is an improvement, and everyone else seemed more buoyant, coming out of the darkness. 

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he’s getting used to it, too, Tom asking his opinion and caring about the answer. 

Tom finishes his drink and lets Thomas help him out of his jacket. There’s a strange sort of tension in the room and Thomas continues undressing him as he would any man, any guest at Downton, and not like they’ve been sleeping with each other for almost four months. They don’t normally need an excuse to find time together like this and with the rest of the house downstairs, increasingly drunk and distracted, it’s a perfect opportunity but something about Tom’s bearing tells him not to push his luck. 

They’re quiet for a time, until Tom sits on the bed and Thomas has to kneel to help him off with his shoes.

‘Thomas, you know we have to stop this.’ 

Thomas doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look up, hands clenched in the soft pile of the rug he’s kneeling on. They’ve had this conversation, or conversations like it, so many times but there’s never been so much resignation in Tom’s voice and he knows this time it will stick. 

Tom takes his hands, draws him up to sit beside him on the bed and Thomas can’t resist a last attempt to hold on to this, desperate like a man drowning as he pulls Tom into a kiss which he knows before it starts will be their last. 

They break apart, Tom letting go of his hands and Thomas feels bereft. He doesn’t know what to say, his mind blank with panic but he won’t beg, he can’t, he refuses to be that pathetic.

_ ‘Please.’  _

‘I’m sorry but it was never going to be permanent. It’s better we end it now, before…’

The panic turns to anger so quickly it leaves him lightheaded and it’s a struggle to keep his voice low, ‘before what? You start to care?’ 

‘Yes, exactly that,’ the words fall like blows and although he can hear the pain in Tom’s voice his face is impassive. Perhaps he’s learnt more than he thought from his time Upstairs, to take his emotions and discount them, to discount the feelings of others, ‘I’m not like you. I’m not strong enough.’ 

There it is, the denial, the distance, already rejecting every part of himself that took Thomas to bed, kissed him and held him and wanted him. Thomas stands, he has to put as much space between them as he can, feeling the agitation under his skin as yet another good thing in his life comes to nothing. The room is stifling, unbearable, but he can’t just walk out, he can’t be caught leaving Tom’s room like this and the part of him that has no time for self preservation is desperate for this not to be the end. He swallows the last of his whisky, grip hard against the glass, turning back, speaking before he knows what he’s going to say, certain it will be ruinous. 

‘I’ve been fucked by grander men than you in grander bedrooms than this. You’re no better than me.’ 

He sneers it, feeling the pain of the moment becoming white hot as his anger takes over and he knows he won’t hold back, he can twist the knife if he needs to and make Tom regret ever taking up with him. It’s better if he does it himself before Tom has a chance to realise just how broken and unworthy he is. 

‘Not better, just different,’ Tom is not making eye contact, clearly trying to keep himself in check, ‘don’t make this harder than it has to be, Thomas, please.’

’Harder on you or me?’

Even though he’s sweating in just his shirt he puts his jacket back on, the only thing he can control in this room is himself, and he needs to pull himself together. 

‘You can’t deny that this is untenable with the life I have now,’ Tom looks apologetic, sat there on the bed as Thomas looks across at him but Thomas’s anger is vicious, vindictive, he doesn’t want apologies. 

‘I should have known that you’d only look out for yourself in the end. It’s what you do isn’t it? Leaving Lady Sybil in Ireland to save your own skin. Taking what you want from me while it suits you.’

There’s a flash of anger across Tom’s face, there and gone again in a second, before he says, ‘this is hardly the same as that. I wasn’t...I was protecting her. Just like I’m protecting you.’

‘I can look after myself.’ 

‘I know that, Thomas. Please, let me explain.’

Tom’s voice breaks when he says Thomas’s name but Thomas doesn’t give him an inch, won’t concede any ground as he rounds on him again, ‘you used to be Downstairs. We’re the same, you can’t let it change you.’ 

‘Well it has, I was a fool to think it wouldn’t,’ Tom flinches at the accusation, pulls his dressing gown tighter around himself as he stands, inadvertently emphasising his point; he’s bought the clothes, just about learned the manners and now he’s using the servants and discarding them at will. 

‘And this? With me? Was that foolish?’

‘No, I would never say that. But I have my future to think of, Sybbie’s future.’

‘Were you thinking of her future while you fucked me?’ 

‘Don’t you  _ dare  _ talk about my daughter like that,’ and there it is; rage in Tom’s voice like Thomas has never seen and he steps back from the force of it. It was a low blow and one Thomas immediately regrets but Tom knows how much Thomas cares for her, knew what he was doing when he brought her into this.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ now Thomas has an answer to his anger, all the fight goes out of him, the righteous fury fading away to nothing and there’s only a bone deep tiredness to the grief he’s always carrying, what difference can more pain make. It’s Jimmy and Philip and every man who couldn’t care for him in the way that he needed. Proof that Thomas will always be alone, always returning to the boundless emptiness of his life in this house he can’t seem to escape. 

Tom comes over to him and Thomas lets himself be held, Tom’s hands comforting on the nape of his neck, cheek to cheek, his breath warm against Thomas’s face as he murmurs, ‘I have so many responsibilities. There’s more to their life than you imagine, there’s so much at risk all the time, every time we do this.’

’I want to help you, I  _ can  _ help you,’ Thomas leans back but doesn’t break the embrace, runs his fingers over Tom’s knuckles. 

‘I’m sorry, Thomas. You can’t. You -, you wouldn’t understand, you’re still only...’ 

Thomas steps back, the end of that sentence is inevitable so he finishes it for him, ‘a servant.’

‘That’s not what I…’

‘Well, thank you, for letting me know where I stand, sir.’

_ ‘Thomas.’ _

‘Will you be needing anything else from me this evening?’

For the first time since Thomas came into the room Tom looks truly distraught but he’s keeping his voice remarkably level, now, ‘no, thank you, Barrow, that will be all.’ 

At the door Thomas pauses because, as ever, he has to have the last word, ‘over by Christmas you said,’ Tom’s eyes are shining with unshed tears but he turns away, silent, so Thomas continues harshly, sarcastic to the very end, ‘at least you gave me to the New Year.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://lacerta26.tumblr.com)


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